


five twists of the soul

by empty_throne



Series: Scent of Blood [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Bloodplay, Drabbles, F/M, Foreplay, Medical Kink, Sensory Deprivation, Talking During Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-26 03:56:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3836125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/empty_throne/pseuds/empty_throne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five drabbles of Matt/Claire, increasingly kinky.</p><p>EDIT: This appears to have turned into a series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	five twists of the soul

"They say guys are supposed to be really visual," she says. "What is it like for you?"

He shrugs, runs his hands over her shoulders. "A lot of it is touch. Hair, skin, feeling the different textures. Feeling heat, or sweat. Wetness."

She draws in an unsteady breath at the way he whispers that last word.

"Or sound," he says, and for a moment she knows what it's like to be him, hearing a grin without seeing it. "The little hitches in your breath, the sounds you don't know you're making. And of course--" He kisses her deeply. "There's taste."

*

"Tell me what you see."

She's kneeling over him. Not her usual position, but with the cuts on her back, lying down might be bad. So it's her on top, speaking raggedly as she tries to keep her rhythm while she describes what's laid out below her.

"Your body," she says. "Your--your torso, all those muscles flexing and relaxing. Your hands bunching in the sheets, because you want to touch me, you want to see with your fingers. The line of your throat when you throw your head back."

There is intimacy in seeing art through someone else's eyes.

*

He comes out of the tank hyperventilating, panicked. Not at all relaxed.

She knew that before he emerged. The tank Stark built for him monitors heart rate, breathing, even brain activity. It also blocks sensory stimuli far better than a normal deprivation tank.

He clutches at her, still gasping. His skin is rough with salt, but she kisses him anyway, grinds against him, feeling the trembling in his body. The vulnerability is thrilling, knowing that this resilient man can be reduced to this state so easily.

In there, for the first time since his childhood accident, he was truly blind.

*

"It turns you on, doesn't it?"

She stops in the middle of packing her kit. Can't meet his eyes, even though she knows it doesn't matter.

"I can hear it," he says, apologetically. "Your heartbeat changes, your breathing speeds up. Skin gets warm. You like seeing me injured. In pain."

She has to say something. "I don't _like_ it. I don't like you always getting hurt."

"But you like seeing the effects." He waves her next words away. "I owe you so much. Honestly ... it sounds weird, but--if this gets you off, then it's the least I can do."

*

"What I want isn't very sanitary," she says firmly. The proper response for a nurse.

"It isn't like you don't know my medical history. And you've cleaned me up pretty well."

Not well enough. It's a terrible idea. But then he speaks, softly. "Claire. I don't mind." And then she can't stop herself; it's right there, and she leans forward and does what she's wanted to do for months, licks up the rivulet of blood that has run down his back where one of the cuts has opened again. It's copper against her tongue and it tastes like beautiful sin.


End file.
